Upon the Burning of Our House
by Loony-bin Escapee
Summary: Dudley was born with "a predisposition to higher moral judgement". Given his love for food, he's decided that starving someone is the worst sin one can commit. Thus begins Dudley's war against his parents. With the help of Bond movies, unlikely coincidences, and an intelligent Harry by his side, he sets about destroying the Dursley's pocket of normalcy. Magic is just a bonus.
1. 1 Prologue

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters, ideas, and places belong to J. K. Rowling. I make no profit from this.

Prologue

Dudley was sure of one thing - and that was food. Everything else was kinda jumbled, but he was also fairly certain that Petunia and Vernon Dursley were not what one would call "good folk". They did not even classify as decent folk. He may not be a genus, but he was "possessed of a natural aptitude to higher moral judgement", this said of him in response to his settling a dispute which threatened to tear year one apart (this, of course, concerning whether Lindy Crenshaw was allowed to sit on the boy's side of the table at lunch - it was still a rather touchy topic). And so, putting this aptitude to use, he found that those individuals filling in the role of "parents" were inadequate to the task. It had been explained to him, via a rather lengthy speech delivered to the entirety of Patrick-Evans Primary School for Higher Education (or PEPSHE for short) in response to some…questionable doings believed to be the work of some ambitious fifth years by a flushed professor that claimed unruly children were the results of unruly parents. He hadn't the faintest as to how he'd turned out so well. Dudley's first inkling of moral inferiority on the part of his parents was the use of the "nickname" Freak for their nephew, one Harry Potter.

Until the age of five, Dudley had called Harry Freak, thinking it an odd name, one which may have been attributed to the fault of parents who were stupid enough to drink and drive. Upon finding out, the very first day of year one that his cousin's name was in fact Harry James Potter, he began to have doubts as to the truth of all of the other claims his parents had made regarding his cousin. Like the fact that Harry liked living in the cupboard under the stairs with all the spiders and the dust-bunnies a boy could ask for. Or perhaps that he enjoyed being tossed around like garbage and nearly starved to death. This last sat particularly uncomfortably with Dudley who was well-versed in the importance of food. Thus began the surreptitious increase in food-intake by Harry and, rather unfortunately (and to the relief of his pediatrician), the decline in Dudley's waist size. Alas, it was necessary. On this went for the entirety of year one, Dudley's parents nearly killing Harry with neglect, punishment for high grades, delinquency, and when other excuses were used up, general freakishness. Dudley spent most of his time fielding the Dursley's abuse with distractions and proposed interests in gardening, cooking and cleaning. But it could not go on forever. The situation was doomed to worsen and only needed a singular spark to upset the whole business*. It was, in the end, Harry's genius which tipped the balance. Dudley had said before, he wasn't smart. It was with little imagination that one could believe Harry smarter. That he was, by leaps and bounds ahead of the entire class. So, thinking it the reasonable thing to do, the year one teacher, a lady by the name of Ms. Hubble, had recommended he skip a year.

"Mr. Dursley, I really do advise you place Harry in year three. He's simply a very special boy and I have no doubts that he'll do extremely well." A more incendiary sentence has never since been spoken.

That night, Dudley feared for Harry's life. It was the screams of agony that finally spurred him to action. Dudley may have been a child, but he was no gutless coward. And so, with the assistance from many a cheap Bond movie, he began to plot.

AN: So…that's interesting I guess. I know it's a little weird, having a third person objective narrator with thesaurus words tell a story about two little boys. Call it irony, but it's mostly just my writing style. It is a little amusing picturing Dudley sound out words like surreptitious and pedantic. I'm going to warn you right now, even though my writing style seems a little goofy and childish, I tend to mix incredibly disturbing themes in with fluff. It could be adorable. Little Harry and Dudley sittin' at the table eating cheese sandwiches and then BAM! Mentions of suicidal tendencies in bored house-wives. I know there's a lot of serious stuff on this site, but the juxtaposition can be off-putting. Also, what is Dudley planning? Be specific and I'll give you an internet cookie (which is basically worthless, but most rewards nowadays are). Tell me what you think, what you would have done differently, etc. My updates will be short because my attention span in short. Sorry about that.


	2. 2 A Reasonable, Sensible Story

Chapter 2

A Reasonable, Sensible Story

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other similarities in character, plot, or ideas that may appear in the following work.

Dedicated to the guest reviewer who got me off my butt. You know who you are.

Harry crept out from his cupboard under the stairs, summoned by the quiet, but still frantic knocking of his cousin's large hand. Over the past year, these midnight interruptions of his not so sound sleep had become common. As Harry stretched out his cramped muscles (which really ought to be used to this treatment by now), Dudley danced back and forth, looking very much like he had to pee. Finally running out of his infinite patience, Dudley took hold of Harry's shoulder and pushed him into the kitchen. Eat first, talk later. These were the simple guidelines to nearly every interaction with Dudley, Harry had learned. They dared not turn on the light as it might wake Petunia, or even Vernon, whose house-rattling snores had become reassuring on nights like this. So they sat at the small breakfast table in the dark with two cheese and pickle sandwiches each, a can of pop for Dudley, and a glass of milk for Harry (Dudley was purportedly worried about his calcium intake). The moon was very nearly enough light to see by, or at least to prevent Harry from decorating his face with food. A couple minutes passed in silence before they were finished. Dudley was clearly anxious about something, which only made him want to eat more, but he restrained himself. Eventually both were done and out of habit, Harry tidied up the table and washed up the dishes. Not to be outdone, Dudley put them away. After everything was put away, they sat back down, staring at each other apprehensively. The scene might have been comical, the two boys sitting across from each other like businessmen about to enter into a very risky contract, had anyone been awake to see it.

"Harry, you can't stay here," Dudley's voice shattered the silence rather soundly as he continued to stare at the other boy.

"Well I'm not leaving you here!"

Dudley sighed, exasperated. For someone so smart, Harry seemed awfully stupid.

"We've been over this before, you know. They're not gonna do anything to me. They love me. And besides, it wouldn't be _normal._ "

"Dudley, that's a load of crap and you know it. Back before we went to school, you were over three times the size of a normal child and the doctor was worried about your cholesterol of all things! There's more than one kind of abuse. Besides, you're my friend and friends don't leave each other behind."

"But they'll actually look for me! And you know how they'll twist it, say you kidnapped me or some rubbish. Never mind that you're barely half my size."

Despite wishing Harry would just give in already so they could finish their plan and go to sleep, (something Dudley valued only slightly less than food), he was touched at Harry's reluctance to leave him behind. It was not that Dudley particularly wanted to stay, though he sometimes thought that he would miss his parents if he did leave. He just didn't see it going well. And he was right. If Harry were to run away, there would be a token inquiry by the local bobbies before Petunia made up some excuse relating to Harry's supposed delinquency and for some unknown reason, they would believe it. After a couple of weeks of semi-thorough investigation, everything would return to normal and years later the existence of the Dursley's ratty nephew who disappeared one day would be entirely forgotten. If Dudley disappeared…the Dursleys were quite wealthy. The investigation could go on for years.

"Dudley…" Harry's voice broke through Dudley's thoughts, "Why don't we just tell the counsellor about how they treat me? They might not believe one child, but two?"

No! Ridiculous! Trust adults?! He dismissed Harry's suggestion entirely out of hand. And thus, ended the possibility of a reasonable, sensible story. Instead, Dudley borrowed from spy mysteries everywhere and decided that he and Harry could stow away on a plane to America. Harry expressed his doubts, and once again, was ignored. Plan finished (at least in Dudley's mind), both boys headed back to bed, Dudley locking Harry back in his cupboard to keep up appearances.

Dudley did much to keep up appearances in those days. The following morning, at breakfast, Dudley did not say a word as Harry was given a watermelon rind and a couple pieces of badly burnt bacon in place of the full English breakfast he himself had, though he may have slipped a biscuit or tow into his pocket for his cousin. On the walk to school, he determinedly did _not_ walk at Harry's side, but rather, walked ahead of him, talking with some obnoxious boy who came from whatever upstanding family Vernon was trying to schmooze up to this week. He did not speak up when the boy's jeering started up, but he very nearly did hit him when he leapt at Harry after he had unwisely spat a vicious comeback in response to a jive at his mother. Harry never could abide an insult to his mother. Nor to Dudley, at least not after what happened last year.

Dudley did manage not to hit the boy, but only because Harry ended up socking him a good one instead, probably because he saw the look on Dudley's face. The rest of the walk to school was spent in stunned silence because Piers (that was the boy's name) was too much of a _Nancy_ to follow through once Harry proved he could defend himself. Normally he didn't bother. After all, Harry was very fast, but not too strong. Piers was a rat-faced boy, thin through the shoulders, with that natural bony look children of a certain age have. Though Harry and he probably weighed the same, the difference was acute. Harry was gaunt. His eyes too big for his face, breast-bone defined clearly. Lately he had started to fill out a bit more, but the damage already done was significant. Dudley knew the sooner he could get regular meals, the better his chances at a full recovery. It was almost fortunate in a way that Harry was made to do so much work, particularly outside chores. The Dursleys would never stand for doing anything less than normal in the eyes of their neighbors, and a boy that was working that hard for so long needed food. So, it was that Harry was given just enough to allow healthy muscle development, and since Dudley started smuggling him milk, bone development as well. Yes, Harry looked like a skeleton, but a _really_ fit one. Piers was just a thin boy; he'd never worked a day in his life, though he did have the advantage of regular meals. So, it didn't surprise Dudley that Harry could take him. He was a scrappy fellow after all.

Dudley was giving a lot of thought to this new spanner in the works Harry had thrown. Oh, sure it was very noble of him, but it also made things very complicated. Sitting at the lunch table a reasonable distance away from Harry, he was attempting to mastermind an operation that would have given even his hero, James Bond (had he mentioned James Bond was his hero?) a difficult time of it. He knew the best way to disappear was to die. Barring actual death, the best way to fall off the grid was to convincingly fake one's death. And the best way to do that was fire. The answer to everything was fire…except when the answer was food. Anyway, Dudley had to fake both his and Harry's death. There was some talk about just faking his own. But that was preposterous. With just Harry left behind, there was no one to stand between him and the Dursley's grief-fueled rage. Obviously, that idea belonged to Harry, self-sacrificing idiot that we all know him to be. So, Dudley had to kill them both. And they would go out in a blaze of glory! Maybe then Lindy Crenshaw would remember his daring intercession on her behalf. If she stopped mooning over that Rob Willis kid. Well it would be too late for Lindy Crenshaw if she ever realized what she missed. [She didn't. She and Rob Willis improbably remained sweethearts well into University, where Lindy studied Marine Biology and Women's Literature and Rob (now Bobby) studied business law. They got married straight out of university and had a baby 7 ½ months later. Lindy wanted to name her Willow, but Bobby won out with the traditional, stolid (boring) Susan. She took after her father. Five years later, Lindy was found in the bathtub, wrists slit and a Chopin-esque smile on her face. But Dudley didn't know that. His young mind is better off without that trauma].

Dudley firmly put the topic of Lindy Crenshaw out of his mind. He had important things to consider. Such as whether he should pull out a molar. He really didn't feel like pulling out his tooth. And as Harry pointed out, why would there be just one tooth? Darn Harry and his logic. Dudley was sure Harry had never watched James Bond so he wondered how Harry even knew about "forensic dental evidence". Anyway, Dudley needed to find a way to make sure a fire burned hot enough to turn any bones and teeth that might have been left behind to ash. And he couldn't just go up and ask Ms. Chrissie (the librarian) at what temperature teeth would be unrecognizable to "forensic dentists". He didn't even know what a forensic dentist was. That was all Harry. Somehow, Harry accumulated vast amounts of obscure knowledge despite having little to no access to the town's poorly stocked library and only a year four reading level. Which was three years above his age, but not enough to master heavy forensic science tomes filled pedantic words and long-winded paragraphs. Little did Dudley know that on the nights the Dursleys forgot to lock Harry in his cupboard, he crept out and watched midnight-documentaries on everything from "Zen and the Art of Shaving" to _Murder: How to Kill Pete "the Asshole Mailman Who Slept with Your Wife" and Get Away with It._ Coincidentally, Pete died in a house fire, though he didn't have to worry about the burning point of teeth and bone. That episode of Murder aired two years ago, but Harry had an excellent memory and even recalled the exact temperature at which bone and teeth could no longer be used to identify a victim (2000 degrees F if anyone is curious). Harry considered himself well informed on housefires. Not true. Harry knew next to nothing about housefires, which was one step above Dudley. Sitting perhaps three tables down from his cousin, his thoughts turned in the same general direction—though with a great deal less random explosions and martinis (shaken, not stirred). He decided he had to do some research. And the way to do that rested upon Harry's ability to Houdini his way out of a locked cupboard, run to the train station five kilometers from No. 4, and buy a midnight train ticket to London with the meager savings he had managed to scrape up by doing homework for the other kids. Dudley would have objected on the grounds that those kids needed to learn how to do first year maths, as it was actually useful in real life, but Dudley had an allowance and no room to stick his morally upright nose. The locked cupboard presented a problem, as it was bolted from the outside. Fortunately, the hinges were on the inside. He had a pen about the right size.

Plan in place, Harry went to his cupboard that night with a smile—an internal one of course. Petunia would have lectured him on his drug-addict father's propensity to smile whimsically and at nothing at length.

That night, staring up at the glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling of his cupboard, Harry felt…excited. He was going to get out. He and Dudley, they were going to be free. His mind raced with the possibilities. Maybe they would go to the U.S. or the Continent even. Join a traveling circus—nah, those things were shady as hell. Harry personally hoped they'd be taken in by an adoption agency and then the most perfect family would find them. They would encourage Dudley to take theater (something Harry knew he desperately wanted to do, but didn't because of Vernon) and maybe let Harry compete in the science fair. He might even get his own room! And they'd tell him how tall he was getting and tuck him in at night and he would cook for them because he wanted to, not because he had to. Harry sighed and rolled his eyes at himself (rather difficult to do without a mirror). They couldn't go to an orphanage. They would need identification, and when Dudley and he refused to give it, there would be an investigation. More likely than not, they would be stranded on the street somewhere. But he would make it work. He had to. And with that thought, he crept out of bed and toward the door. Vernon's snores were loud and frequent, a sure sign that he was sound asleep. Harry began the laborious task of standing absolutely still while soundlessly tapping the bottom hinge's pin out of place and holding the door up—all at once, so as not to make any noise. There was one hair-raising moment when Vernon stopped snoring and Harry thought he heard a thump, but then the snoring started up again louder than ever. Harry let out a breath of relief. As the last pin dropped in his waiting palm, his watch showed 11:00 p.m. That left an hour to jog to the train-station and buy the ticket, which gave him enough time, but his movements became swifter and nervous almost as if he could feel the seconds ticking by. He made it out of the house, closing the door as slowly as he could manage leaving it unlocked. He would have to get back before morning milk delivery, which was also the Dursley's wake up call. He walked swiftly down the walk and broke into a sprint when he hit the road. It was one of the last few summer nights of September and Harry was already sweating. Street lights were fewer on Privet Drive than elsewhere in Little Whinging and for that Harry thanked his lucky stars. There were no peeking heads above garden gates at this time of night, but if there had been, they may have caught a glimpse of a pale face speeding by. The watcher might have felt as if he had seen a living ghost. But everyone was asleep—Harry went unnoticed. Harry made it to the train-station just in time, at 11:35 p.m. which allowed him to get sufficiently in order as to look not quite so much like an asthmatic chipmunk and perhaps even like he might be a potential customer.

It is important to realize that British train stations, like most other train stations, frown upon unaccompanied children. It was generally their policy to call the police, identify the child in question and send them home with a smack on the bum and a firm scolding. This policy was even more rigorously enforced at 11:35 p.m., by Dorus, the only employee who would accept the late hours and low pay for the express purpose of gossip material. However, Dorus was out with a severe case of the chicken pox. She wasn't very popular as a child and so never caught it. It was rather life threatening. Her good friend, Jack the alcoholic, was filling in for her and most likely didn't even notice it was dark out, let alone that his next customer's head didn't even reach the counter. Harry got his ticket. He settled down to wait under the rain shelter, looking in the direction of the tracks. The station was nearly empty at this time of night, only two other people there, an older woman in a pink woolen coat and a middle-aged man in what looked to be an especially colorful bathrobe. Harry didn't pay much mind to either of them, being far too excited himself to pay mind to anyone else.

Eventually, his train arrived, and he got on, spending thirty minutes on what was probably some very intense plans for a nine year old.

By the time the train pulled into the London station, Harry was nearly bouncing out of his seat with nerves. This was the first time he'd ever been anywhere by himself, especially this late. But he didn't just spend a nine year old's fortune on a train ticket for nothing, so he disembarked and tried to maintain a façade of calm. He was just ambling his way to his mother's apartment after picking up some milk. That was a reasonable thing for him to be doing, right? Mrs. Dursley had never trusted him with her wallet, but he was sure his own pretend mother would. He continued down the street, decidedly not well lit though it was, oblivious to his surroundings. It was by luck that he even looked up in time to see his decided upon destination, the only book store in this part of London that didn't close at midnight. It looked a little sketchy and maybe sort of like those fake touristy occult shops, only less fake. The name was fairly bland in comparison: Little Shop of Rare Books*. Almost like the owner had been trying to pick something cutesy but didn't know enough clichés to make it work. Harry put aside his misgivings and pushed the obnoxiously green painted door open.

*I have to give credit where credit is due. The bookstore is modeled in part from the Little Shop of Rare Goods which is featured in Prague Race, probably the best web comic in the world. You can find it by googling Prague Race because I'm pretty sure links don't work on this website. Anyway, it should be the first one that comes up.

Amazing comics aside, I know its been forever and I'm sorry about that. The freakishly long gaps in posting do not mean this fic is dead. I've actually got an increasingly complicated and lengthy plot in the works, but I'm having a little trouble finding my way from A to B. I'd love to hear from anyone about their impressions or predictions for the story or anything else not related (I'm not picky). Thanks for reading!


	3. Just Another Day at the Office

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and I don't profit of off my work. Other than the warm and fuzzy feeling reading reviews gives me…

Behind the green door was chaos. The Books part of Little Shop of Rare Books was a misnomer. Certainly, there were enough books, but the space was practically overcome with odd bits and ends that overflowed from shelves and baskets and in some cases, stacks in dark corners. Plants Harry had never seen before hung from the ceilings and poked out from under desks overflowing with what looked like astrological charts and outdated maps. Harry glanced at one and saw that the Americas weren't even on it. There were jars full of mysterious looking fluids and medical instruments old enough to be more sculptural than practical. In amongst the books that towered over him, some stacked in piles, others lucky enough to find themselves on shelves, were things for which Harry didn't possess words. That first moment in the shop with everything assaulting his senses in a riot of colors and smells (there were no sounds; it was perhaps the only characteristic it shared with any other bookstore), was like nothing he had experienced in all those years at Privet Drive. Further back, there was almost a memory slipping out of his thoughts like water—never mind. In a word it was…magical. Harry felt as if he had almost forgotten the word. He'd had no cause to use it in his short life, but if any place was deserving of that taboo, it would be here.

He was definitely in the wrong place to find a book about housefires. But he wasn't going to leave, not after everything it had taken to get here.

And anyways, a man had appeared out of the back just then. Harry didn't want to be rude.

"Ah yes, come with me, right this way!" Bug eyes peered out from behind bottle glasses all settled underneath the most magnificent eyebrows Harry had ever seen. They really were tremendous, all set to fly off his face at the slightest twitch. Before he could hope to respond to the man's opening statement (which was more suited to the middle of the conversation, really), he was ushered off to a section of the store he hadn't seen yet. He ended up in front of a bookcase, thankfully. He didn't want to resolve the mystery of the fluids in those various jars he had seen, and he was sure some of those medical instruments hadn't been sterilized before being brought out to sell. The man was tutting to himself as he scanned the bookshelf. It appeared to be utterly without order, but a few seconds later, the man snapped his fingers and lunged for an unassuming slim book near the top of the shelf.

"Here you are! _A History of House Fires_! I think that will do you just fine." Harry gaped in shock.

"Uhh—"

"Well get on with it then, or is there anything else you needed? Oh really, let me just see here…" He scampered off to yet another adjoining room, bouncing back seconds later with another book clasped in his manic-looking hands.

"This one's on the house, dear fellow. I fear you'll have a rough go of it and everyone deserves a good story now and then. I think this one will help more than it will hurt, at least. Let me get you checked out!"

With that, Harry was bustled to a make-shift cash register and then out the door in short order. He was baffled, obviously. He'd dare anyone to go through that store and remain unmoved. But it wasn't something he was going to make sense of tonight and probably not tomorrow either. Instead, he made his way back through the streets to the train station and tried not to think too hard about the shadows that flittered around the back walls or the extra rooms that shouldn't have been possible given the closely packed neighboring buildings on either side of the shop. He wasn't very successful.

Sometimes, Harry really hated school. After his midnight sojourn the day before, he was exhausted and less than prepared to deal with the usual crap. The classrooms were stuffy, the teachers generally cruel, and his classmates imbecilic. After he had gotten home last night, somewhere around two in the morning, he had stayed up reading _A History of House Fires_ until it was light out. And then he made breakfast…for the Dursleys. He had managed to snag a piece of toast, all in all, a win. He had managed to show the book to Dudley, well one of them. He had forgotten about the other book, the children's book, was it? He should probably throw it out when he got back. No telling what was in it, a shop like that, picked out specially by that kooky old man. But Dudley had been pretty thrilled by his acquisition. Of course, he hadn't been up all night reading it. It was beyond boring. He shifted in his chair and glanced at the clock, then back to Ms. Harris. She was waxing poetic on the French Revolution and unlikely to stop anytime soon, unfortunately for Harry, who was not interested in a war that occurred over 200 years ago. He was interested in house fires, as it happened. And his book, useful though it seemed to be, wasn't the only recourse for information. It was also long-winded, probably because it was a _history_ of house fires rather than a practical guide. Maybe Ms. Harris had personal experience? He should ask.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Ms. Harris, do you know at what temperature human remains become unidentifiable?"

"Mr. Potter, is there a reason for your sudden interest in arson? Should we be concerned? How is your home life?"

Harry really should have seen this coming. Take an interest in something and everybody got paranoid. Really, this was just typical. He rolled his eyes at the counsellor. It didn't appear to reassure her.

To be fair, thinking back on it, it probably wasn't the best thing he could have done to alleviate his boredom. And it certainly wouldn't be good when the bobbies came poking their nose into things after he and Dudley escaped. But he was nine. Nine-year-olds aren't known for their foresight. Harry wasn't thinking about the future just now. He was thinking about the rather embarrassingly overlined lipstick at face level. And the onion ring breath. Where did she even get onion rings? He couldn't ask that though. Even Harry knew that would only end in tears. His own of course. The woman sitting across from him looked as if she'd worn a smile to her mother's funeral.

"I really just want to know. Do _you_ know?" The lady's eye twitched.

"Mr. Potter, that question is entirely inappropriate!"

"Well only if I planned on killing someone. But I don't! Honest! I mean who am I gonna kill? I'm skin and bones!"

"The point still remains; the discussion of human death and decay is traumatizing to young individuals of your age. It is particularly not something you bring up in class!"

"Actually, there was a study done that children exposed to death at an early age in a non-violent manner are better equipped to deal with loss later in life. So…you should be thanking me."

" _Mister_ Potter! Why do you want to know how to cover up a death?" At this point, the woman's eyes were bulging, and her cheeks were flushed. Harry was becoming concerned for her health.

"For Science, of course!" This was not the reason for his interest, obviously. He was nine years old. If he had a scientific interest, it would likely revolve around bugs, guts, slime, or all three. Most child scientists did not have a vested interest in obscuring evidence in an arson case. But he couldn't tell the counsellor that, now could he? Dudley was of the firm belief that an adult would not aid them in escape from their legal guardians, a position that Harry agreed with, if nominally. Certainly, there would be no help from their school counsellors. It appeared that the woman was not fooled. This was not likely to be their last meeting. He should probably attempt to learn her name.

"Um…Doris, was it?"

" - _Dr. Pickett._ "

"Ah, yes…Well it was wonderful talking with you, but I must be going now. Budding scientists, you know. Plus, if I get home late for the third time in a row, my guardians are going to be displeased."

Harry didn't mention that if they noticed at all, the Dursleys would be more likely to lock him in the cupboard for three days than to reprimand the school. But he was willing to bet "Dr. Pickett" wouldn't bother to call the notoriously difficult Petunia Dursley about one of her wards. Even professionals struggled to maintain a façade of calm in the face of all her…horribleness. Dr. Pickett paled at the mere suggestion. She'd likely been a part of the Great Lunchroom Debacle in Second Grade. Harry almost felt sorry for her. But not quite.

"If that's all, I'd better be on my way, Mrs. Pickett."

"It's _Doctor—_ ", Harry shut the door on her sputtering, already planning on how he'd sneak into No. 4 if he did happen to be late, which seemed an ever more likely possibility. Dudley was probably already running through distraction scenarios right now. Harry better hurry; much as he loved his cousin, Dudley wasn't known for his acting skills.

Griphook stared at the accounts in front of him, trying to make the numbers crunch. No matter how many times he looked at it, or how he looked at it (upside down, sideways, backwards, even glanced at out of the corner of his eye to surprise it into behaving) the Statement of Income refused to balance. Something was off. It was his first day on the job, and asking for help…well, let's say the post's former occupant hadn't retired.

Mayhap a day's rest would make sense of it. He'd accomplished enough today to get away with taking the rest of the night off. He began packing up his desk, starting with the ceremonial dagger (that was really a letter opener) every senior Gringotts goblin was expected to carry. Technically, he wasn't a senior goblin, that title was held by the account managers of Ancient and Noble houses. Griphook was an accountant. But his sire always told him to accessorize for the job he wanted, not the job he had. He glanced at the Statement again, debating whether to take it home with him. Taking work home was generally frowned upon due to Gringotts' strict confidentiality policy, but this wasn't an account holder's file, was it? It was just that…well, the goblin in charge of putting together the Statement of Income was Ragnok. He was the president of the London Branch of Gringotts. He shouldn't be authoring Income Statements. And Griphook shouldn't be reviewing it. There was something altogether fishy about it. But if it was important enough to be worthy of Ragnok's consideration, it was certainly enough to get Griphook fired over if he missed something. And if he found one of Ragnok's mistakes, well. All the better for him.

He glanced at his desk one more time before snagging the Statement of Income and tucking it in his suit jacket.

"Griphook! Where do you think you're going?" Lugnod stomped over, knocking over a runner as he did. By the time the runner had apologized and scurried out of the room, Lugnod was already breathing down his neck. Griphook turned around slowly, making sure to fix his expression into a simulacrum of a smile.

"Why nowhere, Director Lugnod. Just taking this report here to the—"

"I don't think so, Griphook. Put that down. We've got issues with the rail cart and you're going to fix them! Frankly, I don't trust you with the accounting work, what with your _history_."

"Lugnod, that is quite unnecessary! I'm the best arithmetist you have!"

"I don't care who your father payed to get you that qualification!" By now his veins were visible and flecks of spittle were dribbling down his chin—his Friday afternoon face. "As long as I run this bank, I'll not let a _g_ _ð_ _bnifkr_ rise through the ranks as if he were _worthy_!" The room could have been filled with dementors for all the warmth it currently held. Griphook had felt such rage often enough in his life, but tonight it became pointless to hold it back. Why should he when it had gotten him here? A dead-end job with a bigoted supervisor, he snorted to himself, that was what he wanted out of life. Well, there was nothing for it.

"Far be it for me to stand in your way, _sir_. I shall tender my resignation on my way out." His whole body vibrated with the words and black spots clouded his vision, but there was nothing else in his life but his pride, and for that, he was willing. "I'm sure you can find a suitable replacement for the end of the quarter reports Tuesday." He managed a sneer and turned on his heel.

Griphook stared up at the starlit sky of Diagon Alley, the slight crinkling of the Statement of Income still tucked in his jacket, the only sound to be heard. It was a petty thing, to keep it, and would surely do him no good. But goblins were petty.

A/N: It has been a while. Sorry about that. I'm going for a degree in the most boring major possible and it has tried its best to stamp the creativity out of me. Thankfully, it wasn't entirely successful, though I suppose you'll be the judge of that. So…goblins. I bet you weren't expecting that. Trust me, it gets weirder. Not in terms of complex new species or badass hidden schools, I'm no Miranda Flairgold. By the way, check her out, if you don't already know her. Some epic, unfortunately discontinued (at least I think) stories await right here on fanfiction. I have decided I'm going to use my miniscule platform to promote and it will be wonderful. But I do have some ideas other than promotion. As for the people who reviewed. Thank you, I love you, you're probably the biggest reason I updated. I hope reading this was worth the time you spent writing the lovely comments in my inbox.

As for what's to come, Harry and Dudley won't be living on the streets. Or if they do, it won't be for long (ominous laughter in the distance). No seriously, I think it might go a little dark. Which is going to be weird given my inability to write a tone that's anything other than mildly amused.

And uploading for the second time tonight. Thank you for the reviews telling me the formatting was fucked. My apologies.


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